


Outcome

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Asexuality, Coming Out, Crossdressing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gender Identity, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderqueer, Homophobia, Homosexuality, M/M, Transgender, Transitioning, Transphobia, non-binary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 12:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Six different stories about people coming out of six different closets.





	Outcome

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mix of all sorts of coming out stories I've either heard or experienced myself. I was tempted to make one of these stories completely accurate to what happened when I came out to my family, but it was too negative; I wanted this to be more optimistic. Is Iceland's father Denmark? That's up to you folks.
> 
> Also, I missed Coming Out Day, but I missed it when I came out, too, so I might as well keep up the tradition :P

Maybe they shouldn’t bother.

They’ve waited this long. What’s another week? Month? Year?

 _No._ They’ve prepared. They’ve fretted. They’ve decided. _Today._

They shower quickly, no stalling, and wrap the towel tight around themself. They have stared at the parts of their body that others sexualize and gender for hours this past year; they now live among the mirrors without looking at them. _Inside is what matters,_ they think, their mantra. Their body is not a defining characteristic. Their legal records label them with an F—for failure, to them, because it is simply incorrect. Just as incorrect, in fact, as an M would be. No letter at all would be ideal, but they have seen alternatives: X is rather stylish but a bit too suggestive, U for _undefined_ might work although it could just as easily be _undecided_ and they are more certain of this than anything. Personally, they consider O most reflective of themself: an infinite circle of identity, neither one thing nor another, round and round without ever settling on just one side.

Their father is at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. He has Em’s place set with bowl, spoon, and mug. Em takes their coffee almost black; their father fills his with sugar and cream. Em splashes milk onto the table; it seeps into a scratch in the wood. The cereal box sits between them, a florid wall.

“Dad,” they say.

“Hmm?” The disinterested hum of a sitcom patriarch. When did their father become so forty? He was full of life, when Em was little. Em can picture him, back then: towering over the moms at ballet recitals, struggling to learn the sensitive art of braiding hair, letting Em win countless rounds of checkers while they waited in the hospital. It all went downhill when Em hit puberty—for both of them, it seems like. Em’s not sure what they expected—at least he cared enough to help them figure out how tampons work, even though both of them blushed and shuffled around in embarrassment for hours afterward. But it was around puberty that Em knew something about them was queer, and since they’ve shorn their hair, adopted androgynous clothes, ordered a binder online . . . it just feels like the closer they get to being themself, the further away they drive their father.

“I want to talk to you,” Em says. Then, in case it wasn’t apparent from that opening: “About something serious.”

Their father looks up from the article he’s reading on his phone. He takes in Em like he’s never seen them before, then his brow furrows. “I thought I told you not to wear that thing.”

He means the chest binder. He has never referred to it by the actual name, as if by reducing it to a _thing_ it loses its purpose and value. “I don’t understand why you don’t like me wearing it. I don’t understand why it matters what I wear.”

“Because it’s bad for you, that’s why. For your lungs, your ribs.”

“It’s safe to wear for up to eight hours at a time.”

“Who told you that?”

“Several sources online. Who told you it’s bad for lungs and ribs?”

“Don’t be smart.” He narrows his eyes at Em. “It doesn’t make sense to me. Most girls your age want their chests to be bigger, not smaller. You dress like you’re hiding.” Perhaps hearing the words he says, his expression softens. “Is something wrong, Emily?”

 _That. That right there._ Kindness with the poison of that name at the end. It’s not that the name is entirely wrong—it’s just that, by virtue of being feminine, it excludes the masculine parts of Em’s identity. But when that name is said like this, by their father especially . . . it’s ignoring the truth of who Em is. Worse, it’s _erasing_ it. And today is when that ends.

“Yes,” they reply, voice thinner than they wanted.

Their father finally focuses all his attention on them. They wonder what he’s thinking: bullying, self-harm, bulimia? Truly damaging problems that teenagers face, problems that are far more insidious than wanting to have anal sex with cute boys or feeling more confident with a compression vest under your shirt. _And yet,_ thinks Em. _Here we are._

“You can tell me,” their father says. “You remember me saying that, right? You can tell me anything.”

 _You say that now._ But they’re doing it. It’s happening. No going back. Deep breath.

“I’m non-binary,” they say, and brace for impact.

 

He’s written the email almost a dozen times now. He keeps second-guessing, editing, then deleting it all and starting anew. He thinks perhaps it would be easier to write it in French first, then translate back to English. But he’s not sure how well the truth carries over from one language to another. Expressing this to anyone at all, in writing or out loud, feels like weaving fairy tales. It’s not helping that he has this stuffy collared shirt on. As always, he feels like an imposter. Like a lion with his magnificent mane shaved. Like a rose bush trimmed into a predetermined shape, snipped smartly at any attempt to grow.

“Sir?” He glances up. A tray-bearing waitress smiles at him, and he hurries to move his laptop onto his lap, apologizing. “It’s okay. I keep saying we need to get bigger tables. Seems like everybody who comes in these days is writing a novel.”

He gives her a smile as charming as he can muster; she can think him a starving artist if she likes. He admires her calves as she walks away, smooth and rounded without the misshapen swellings of muscle. His own are coated in a layer of dark down, as is most of him, but he’s never taken issue with it. If he gets what he wants—oh, the thought has such joy swirling in his mind and such dread clenching his guts—he won’t have to shave, but he will need pantyhose. _How housewife,_ he thought when he first saw the getup on his first day. _Even the weather lady on TV shows skin._ But it’s for the better. He doubts anyone wants to see his bare legs, such as they are. _Well,_ he thinks, with a warm thought to girl who just moved in two doors down from him and blushed so dark he couldn’t see her freckles when he baked her a heart-shaped banana cake, _maybe someone does._ But he’ll cross that bridge if and when he comes to it. For now, this.

He sips his latte, then begins the email yet again. He addresses his HR representative as formally as he dares without seeming cold. Uncertainty nags. He shoves wavy golden locks behind his ears. _Just be honest and state what you want. They can’t fire you for asking about something._ Resolve hardened, he begins to type.

 

_I have worked for this company as a customer service rep for almost three years now. I am very grateful to be have this job; I enjoy it and the time spent with my coworkers immensely._

 

None of it is false, but God, so proper. None of his friends would think these words had come from him. But if he wants to be taken seriously, he ought to pitch this seriously, right?

 

_Still, as I come to this job every day, something has been weighing down on me. I will be completely transparent with you. I identify as pansexual, and my gender identity is difficult to describe in one particular label. I am pronoun indifferent, but I use male pronouns as a default simply because it’s what I have used all my life._

 

He can’t start preaching about pronouns and norms now, or he’ll never get this email done, let alone get what he wants. He flexes his fingers. Here comes the official request.

 

_I am writing this email because I feel uncomfortable in the male uniform the company has provided to me, and I am curious if it would be possible to change to the female uniform of a blouse and skirt. I do not wish to be treated any differently, aside from what will naturally come from a change like this. I just want to feel more myself while at work._

 

More himself? Well, if HR wasn’t picturing him sitting alone in his apartment in an unzipped taffeta eating chocolate cake and watching _The Bachelorette_ before, they are now. He’s opposed to that image, by the way. Taffeta is horrid.

 

_Thank you for your consideration._

 

No, that seems like backhanded gratitude.

 

_Thank you for your time._

 

What is he, a stage act? He’d be laughed off, or perhaps booed and tomatoed.

 

_Thank you,_

_Francis Bonnefoy._

 

He stares at it, hunched over the laptop like a manic vulture. He can’t read it over, he knows he can’t; he’ll just hate it and delete it all and be back at square one. There’s only one thing to do now. He drags the mouse down, slowly, slowly, and hovers over the button. _Do it. You have nothing to lose._ Then why is he so terrified?

Because this is his secret. None of his family know. None of his friends or coworkers. None of his ex-lovers ever knew. And now everyone, even strangers who come into the store, will know. If HR says yes. If he’s brave enough to allow himself to be real, if they do say yes.

He clicks SEND.

The email vanishes. He stares at his inbox, full of read messages, invites to corporate to-dos and sale updates from clothing companies. He picks up his cup with a shaky hand and takes a long sip, gaze never leaving his screen. He should close the laptop, relax for the rest of his lunch break, bask in the chatter and clink and crunch of the coffee shop. After all, what are the chances HR will get back to him within the half-hour?

He worships the screen.

 

“Kim Kardashian or Megan Fox.”

“Megan Fox, man. No contest.”

“Megan Fox didn’t break the internet, dude. Kim’s ass did.”

“The only real ass Kim has is between her ears.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means she’s fake as shit and she’s stupid on top of that.”

“Abel, who would you rather fuck? Kim K. or Megan Fox?”

Abel glances up from untying his cleats. He’d been doing a rather good job at drowning out the usual brazen, sex-laden nattering, letting it meld with the slamming of locker doors and the laughter of the other guys as they leave. But now there’s only the three of them: Abel, and two guys he’s never really spoken to about anything other than passes and plays. Not from lack of trying; everyone on the team hounds Abel to join them for this party and that movie. Sometimes he partakes, sometimes he doesn’t. None of them are as introverted as him. A quiet evening with a book is just as rewarding, if not more, than splitting a pizza and raising hell in some bowling alley. But he’s the first to admit that he does get lonely sometimes, and companionship is deeply satisfying when he can find the right sort of person. But he’ll never be lonely enough to join some celebrity in bed, hypothetically or not.

“Neither,” he mutters, returning his attention to his laces.

“I coulda told you that would happen,” one of the guys says. “Abel’s not into sexy girls. He’s one of those guys who wants a brain. Like the scarecrow.” He chortles far too hard at that.

“What do you mean, neither? Name a girl, then,” insists the other guy. “Who would you fuck, if you could fuck anybody in the world?”

Abel’s response would be incriminating, so he exercises his right to remain silent as he puts his cleats into his locker.

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that hard of a decision.”

“Maybe he’s waiting until marriage.” The possibility has them both snickering.

Abel considers taking this way out, but decides against it. He shouldn’t have to lie to these people, his teammates. This high school is forever claiming to be a safe space, an open-minded environment. There’s even a GSA, though he’s never joined it. Too much of it is extracurricular; it would raise too many questions at home. He has every intention of falling in love and choosing a life partner someday, and if that person happens to be a woman, his parents will have no issue. If not, well, he’s never been emotionally reliant on their presence in his life. If they disown him, they disown him. Still, there’s a chance he won’t ever date a man, so there’s no need to stir a pot that he might not even cook with.

“I don’t care about sex,” he says, closing his locker and turning his back on the boys.

 _“What?”_ one of them cries, voice cracking high.

“How can you not care about sex?” demands the other, flabbergasted.

“Easily,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder and steeling himself. “I’m asexual.”

He schools his features. He will show no weakness. He is sure of himself, and he isn’t sure of their reactions; he can’t let the latter bleed into the former. He’s seen the pride flags on the GSA bulletin board in the hall, and every time his eyes find that flag of black, grey, purple, and white—a feeling swells inside him, blooming like the tulips once spring has inherited the garden from winter. _Pride._ Yes, that’s what it is. It is strong, even in the face of ignorance like this.

But it does nothing to shield him from the burning shame as their laughter washes over him like a wave of acid rain.

 

She’s going to be sick.

No, she’s making supper. She’s making supper, they’ll eat it, they’ll watch something on Netflix, and everything will be normal.

It’s just that her life will never be the same again, that’s all.

She catches her warped reflection in the side of the stainless steel pot and nearly drops the spoon. Stout, wide, hideous. No, she can’t look like that. This was all a mistake. She’ll never be what she wants, this will just humiliate her and horrify her guest and she’ll never have any dignity ever again.

 _You were fine when you looked in the mirror earlier,_ she reminds herself, clinging to the voice of reason she’s always been respected for. How is it so easy to give objective feedback and advice to other people, but when it comes to evaluating herself she crumbles? _Go check the mirror again. You’re frightened of something that doesn’t even exist._

She sets the lid on the pot and retreats to the mirror in the bathroom. It’s the closest thing she has to a full-body affair; her reflection stops at the middle of her thighs, if she stands as far away as possible. She leaves just her torso-up in view, examining each detail with military precision. She spent hours debating what she should wear this evening, for the reveal. A dress is way too over-the-top; she doesn’t even really like dresses, anyway, because they feel too vulnerable. She knew her guest wouldn’t be dressing up, so in the end she didn’t, either. She wears her only pair of jeans—bootcut, partly because she likes boots and partly because the flared legs makes her look curvier—with a green turtleneck. She is wearing a bra beneath it, and the bra is stuffed with things she still can’t quite believe she bought. Gelatin boobs. _Breasts,_ she thinks. A much more mature, flattering word. They came with the bra; it has special compartments to slip the implants into. They feel shockingly realistic—not that she has extended experience with touching tits, granted—and so, so right on her chest. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s like she can feel the weight of them tugging on her heart, or perhaps cushioning it; either way, she can never forget they’re there, nor can she forget how glad she is.

She’s less glad about other areas. The broad shoulders can’t be helped; bone is bone, once puberty makes up its mind. She’s heard about facial feminization, shaving down noses and chins and Adam’s apples, but all of it is terribly expensive. She doesn’t think she’s vain enough for that. The hair is still short, but she plans to let it grow down to her shoulders at least. As for the rest of her hair, she’s pleasantly surprised by how satisfying it is to shave it all off. Lathering on the cream, mowing with the razor. A lot to get rid of, the first time, and unspeakably itchy afterward, but at the same time it was rewarding. Oddly intimate, as well; it had been a good way to come to terms with each rarely visited part of herself, facing all of it and admitting to herself what she wants to change, what she likes, and what she is resigned to. The voice falls into the first and last category. Estrogen, once she gets on it, will lighten the voice some—how much is a genetic dice roll, like all of HRT. She’s alright with a bit of commanding deepness, but she doesn’t want orders to be instinctively followed by _Yes, sir._

“Knock-knock! Are you letting this burn the house down on purpose?”

She hurries out and rescues the hissing wurst. It’s much better this way, she’ll think in retrospect. She is not forced to watch her guest’s face as he goes through different stages of reaction. She doesn’t fear what each furrowed brow or widened eye means. She just bustles around the kitchen, putting dinner on the table, and when she finally turns to face him, worked up to a breathless state of _take me or leave me_?

He just smiles. “If I knew you were making yourself look so nice, I would’ve put in more effort.”

She struggles to find words. She was prepared for outrage, grief, questions. This was not part of the plan. “I . . . I . . .”

“Deep breaths,” Gilbert says, still with that calm smile. “The crisis was averted.”

 

He’s not only going to be the only one going to prom in a three-piece suit. He’s the only one going prom in a three-piece suit and a gentlemanly top hat.

 _After all,_ as his exceedingly handsome attorney said with a smirk, _you fought for this. You might as well reap the spoils._

And reap he shall. It was from said attorney that he got the suit. Well, sort of. He needed one to wear to court, which his lawyer arranged for, bringing him into be measured and whatnot (the tailor called him _young man_ , what a thrill!). It turns out you don’t rent suits like you rent tuxedos, but that’s fine with him. If he could wear this suit every day for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man. He said as much to his mother, who replied, _With the cost of it, you’d have to wear it to bed too to get your money’s worth._ But she’s proud of him, and so are his brothers, even though they’ve so far shown it by being even worse to him than before. _You’re a lad now,_ his eldest brother said with one of those shit-eating grins. _We couldn’t hit you before, ’cos you was a girl. But you’re a lad now!_ Followed by all three of them dog-piling him. A bruising initiation into boyhood, but a damn sight better than the monthly reminder of his womanly curse.

But he’s putting that out of his mind. Tonight, he gets to enjoy the human right he fought and won against the narrow-minded administrative staff of his private school. _The civil and criminal code of this country reflects that transgender people, and all people for that matter, have the protected right to gender identity and gender expression. That some of the staff of this school would prefer to force this boy into a dress for his prom is frankly unconstitutional._ And the judge had agreed wholeheartedly.

There’s lingering suspicion that the school wasn’t the driving force behind this; rather, influential parents were. Not everyone is as forward-thinking as his mum or his attorney. There are plenty of people who think if girls wear suits—not that he’s a girl, obviously, but just for example—and boys wear dresses, the family unit will be destroyed and children will grow up into sexual deviants and other such nonsense. _Rubbish, all,_ he thinks, smoothing down his waistcoat. People like that are beyond his concern tonight. His heart has outward armor aplenty—binder, dress shirt, waistcoat, suit jacket, tie—but it has inward armor, too. He’s supported. He’s loved. He’s three weeks on T today, for heaven’s sake! He can already feel the changes, the rasps in his throat. He’s never felt so happy.

“Arthur!” calls his mum from downstairs. “Liz is here!”

He bounds down the stairs, ignoring the drawls of his brothers: _“Oooh, Lover Boy’s lady has arrived!”_

_“Better sweep her off her feet, Art!”_

_“Show her how a Kirkland does it!”_

“Enough out of the lot of you,” says their mum; there’s no mystery where they got their fire from. She smooths Arthur’s unruly hair down and frames his face with her hands. She’s stifling tears; it makes her gruff just like her boys. “Oh, you know how proud I am, don’t you?”

“Of course I know. I’m the brains of the family, aren’t I?”

She swats at him, and he lets her pull him into a hug, good and rough. Scrappers, they are, through thick and thin. She presses a kiss to the top of his head; he’ll never be taller than her, even if the therapy does give him an extra inch. He’ll be frozen like this, forever her little lad. She squeezes him until he wheezes: “I’ve already got enough pressure on my ribs, Mum—”

She pulls back. “You enjoy yourself, alright?” Her voice wavers; she swipes a tear. “You’ve earned it.”

He smiles up at her, waves to them all, and heads out into the evening. Elizabeta is waiting in her secondhand car; her gown is far too nice for the shabby interior. She laughs when Arthur knocks his hat off against the roof of the car. She stretches her vowels beyond posh: “And how is my dashing, exquisitely handsome date tonight?”

He buckles his seat belt and lets the top hat rest on his lap. They’re dates, but not dat _ing_ ; Liz is a lesbian, and Arthur is . . . well, he’s not quite sure yet. But he plays the game: “Oh, I’m simply divine, darling. And how is my unspeakably beautiful, safe-driving date tonight?”

“Grand, just grand,” she says, steering wide out the driveway and causing the driver in the other lane to swerve and honk. Unperturbed, she drives on and asks, “Are you excited to finally show them Arthur Kirkland?”

“I will be,” Arthur replies, gripping the oh-shit handle, “provided we make it there alive.”

 

He’s known him seventeen years—or, in other words, all his life. Both of their lives, for that matter. They were born in the same maternity room, just three days apart; their mothers were in beds side-by-side. They live on the same street; they grew up in each other’s houses, chasing each other’s dogs, borrowing each other’s toys, video games, even clothes. They’re best friends. Beyond best friends. Their parents call them brothers, and for a while they did too. But lately the fond label has chafed a little. Not that they’re growing distant. The opposite is true; even on school nights, it’s rare for them to sleep in their respective beds. The parents have stopped trying to fight it. They have two sons, that’s the simple fact of it. It’s just a matter of where they happen to be spending the night.

Tonight, they’re at Matthew’s house. It’s Friday, so there’s no pressure to do homework and get to bed early. They spent a few hours on the PlayStation, but they’ve been watching horror movies on Netflix for the past four hours. It’s almost two A.M. now, but neither of them are tired. Matthew doesn’t really get frightened by things like movies—startled, at best, and only when it’s a jump-scare. But Alfred is rendered utterly helpless by the movies. With all the lights off and the laptop balanced between their thighs, both of them beneath the sheets with their heads and shoulders sunk into his lovely nest of pillows . . . Matthew really has no idea how he could be scared. But Alfred is fully immersed in any movie he watches; it’s something Matthew is often jealous of, his friend’s overwhelming enthusiasm and immense enjoyment of things. Matthew feels Alfred growing tense as the character on the screen edges toward an ajar closet door. “Don’t do that,” Alfred whispers, urgency rising as the tension does. “Don’t do that. Don’t open it. Don’t do it! No!” A hideously loud noise rings out, and Alfred yelps, hands flying to his face even as he parts his fingers to peek between.

“Only the cat,” Matthew says, smiling faintly as Alfred’s body eases beside him.

“This is why dogs are the best,” Alfred says, shifting closer to Matthew so they’re shoulder-to-shoulder. “Dogs are never spooky.”

Matthew chuckles, and even though he’s watching the movie he’s thinking about how warm and strong Alfred’s shoulder feels against his own. He imagines Alfred resting his head on his shoulder, the trust and affection of it. If he did that, Matthew would rest his head against Alfred’s in a second. There are so many little touches he’s been dying to bestow but can’t push himself to do it, lest it be poorly received. He wants to wrap that little cowlick around his thumb to feel the softness of it; he wants to rest his palms against Alfred’s shoulder blades, to feel them shift beneath his hands like new life from a miracle worker; he even wants to reach over and wipe peanut butter from Alfred’s cheek when they have toast for breakfast. He’s terrified he’ll do these things and Alfred will arch an incredulous eyebrow and be that person he’s never been but could so easily be: _Uh, what’re you doin’, bro?_

The credits are rolling; Matthew has no idea how the movie ended, but Alfred is rambling about how good the twist was, so at least he’s pleased. _Not that it’s difficult to please him,_ Matthew thinks, fondly. “I’m kinda tired, you?”

“Yeah, I could sleep,” Alfred says, yawning on cue and taking off his glasses. “Or rest my eyes, at least.”

Matthew closes the laptop and sets it on the nightstand; both pairs of glasses sit folded on top, to watch their owners sleep. They’re together, touching, at their shoulders, arms, thighs—and ankles, when Alfred moves his leg closer. Matthew holds his breath. Isn’t it creepy, to be secretly wanting Alfred, secretly thinking these things? _Well, what am I supposed to do?_ he despairs. _Tell him?_

Well. He could do that.

“Al,” he says, the name so small in the dark.

“Yeah?”

He considers prefacing it with _This is gonna sound weird_ or _Don’t take this the wrong way_ or _I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time_ , but he ultimately decides against those qualifiers. They’re unneeded. All he needs—all he’s ever needed, with his best friend—is to be honest.

“I’m gay.”

 

He’s never been good with words. Or numbers, for that matter; school in general has been his curse, aside from gym class and lunch. Still, more than once he’s set himself to putting his feelings into words, and not once has it worked out for him. Pacing and talking to himself like an actor trying to memorize his lines never amounted to any great performance. Writing out his thoughts was even less productive; everything sounded vapid, melodramatic, cliche. He wishes he could ask his parents about it, but they’d have too many prying questions. _You like somebody? What’s her name?_ Not that any of the adults in his life are homophobic, it’s just that if they know he likes boys . . . well, they’d never let him have sleepovers with Matthew.

So when the admittance passes his best friend’s lips in a shy whisper, and the silence is so stark afterward Alfred knows neither of them are breathing, he actually wonders for a moment if Matthew has read his mind. They often joke about sharing a sense for each other’s emotions, wants, needs—one will return from the kitchen with lemonade for both regardless if it was requested, a text will arrive on the phone asking _You okay?_ after a stressful test has been completed. Alfred often wondered if Matthew could tell how much he wants him, how he has to fight not to reach out and wrap his arms around Matthew when his hoodie rides up.

“Really?” is all Alfred can say, at first.

“Yeah,” Matthew says, still quiet, tight. “Is that . . . okay?”

Alfred at last finds the right words: “Sure, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. I’m gay, too!”

A pause.

A nervous chuckle. “Really?”

“One hundred percent. I’m a certified homosexual.”

“I’ll need to see your rainbow license.”

The only thing better than wheezing belly laughter that draws tears to your eyes: relieved, breathless giggles that you tremble through after a near-disaster, your whole body tingling with the feeling that you survived. You made it.

“Mattie,” Alfred says, and snakes a hand up from under the blankets to rest over his best friend’s racing heart. “I kinda think I’d like to kiss you. If you want to.”

He doesn’t have time to rethink or fear rejection. Matthew’s hand crawls across his own belly to cup the swell of Alfred’s. A flash of memory, a bright beach afternoon: _Do you think I’m fat? No, you’re perfect._ “I think I’d like that, too.”

They squash noses—it is pitch black, in their defense—and nearly miss each other’s lips after tilting their heads. But they stay close, laughing softly, and guide each other until they’ve found it, the bliss they’d feared Fate might deny them. Alfred pulls back first; both of them are panting, slightly damp, but so, so warm.

“Wow,” Matthew whispers.

“I know. It’s hard to breathe and do that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them want to wait to compose themselves. They don’t need to. There’s nothing to hide.

“Mattie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we do it again?”

“Come here.”

 

The semi-formals have themes, but the prom is simply grandeur and elegance above all else. The gymnasium is strung with white streamers and fairy lights; tasteful vases of pussy willows grace each small, flowy-clothed table. Several podiums have been lined up along the crimson carpet stretching lengthwise from the stage. This is where the couples strut when their names are called. Arthur was hesitant at first—it’s not in his nature to seek spotlights—but Elizabeta insisted. “You have to,” she told him. “So everyone can see this is who you are. It’ll be perfect.”

Arthur had been hesitant to let himself hope or dread one way or another, which is new for him; he’s used to planning for misery, such as to be correct or pleasantly surprised. But tonight he offers Elizabeta his arm and she takes his elbow, and they walk out to just as much applause as everyone else received. A bit less than some, technically; the jocks got whoops from the back of the gym. It’s not the cinematic standing ovation the movie based on his life would entail—oh, everyone fancies such things from time to time, give him a break—but there are no boos, no strange looks, nothing out of the ordinary. That’s what this is, what he had to fight to be allowed to be. _Normal._

Once every pair has found the floor, the music begins—all of it sentimental pop or PG-13 hip hop, no rock to speak of—and the wallflowers make way for those skilled enough to dance or goofy enough to pretend. Arthur would be sitting off to the side, any other time, wondering what he would do if someone were to invite him to dance. Decline? But then he’d seem rude, and he’d kick himself later for turning away friendly human interaction. Accept? But then he’d have to dance . . .

“Come on, let’s dance once at least,” Elizabeta says, tugging at his wrist.

Arthur’s heels dig in, instinctive. He’ll make a fool of himself. His image is pristine, right now; he has returned the champion from the war with administration. And he was rather homely, clumsy, _frumpy_ as a girl—so far, he is a dapper gentleman. He most certainly won’t be that for the rest of his life—definitely not when he has his first drink—but tonight, at least, he can be the man he wants to be.

“This is a slow song. No one could mess up slow dancing. You just move your feet a tiny bit, that’s all,” Elizabeta says, and bats her eyelashes, mostly teasing. “Pretty please?”

Arthur hesitates a moment longer, then relents. “Alright. But only because that please was so pretty.”

He didn’t mean that to sound so flirtatious—but then again, maybe he did. She is stunning in her dress, and not in the way some of the other girls are trying to be tonight. Some of them are all legs, arms, and cleavage. But Elizabeta’s dress ends at the knee and covers her shoulders; her back is the most revealed, and even that is covered in a layer of lovely floral lace. She has modest makeup on, just enough to darken her lashes and redden her cheeks. And her hair has been curled in gorgeous swirls of cinnamon; he’s surprised by the feelings it sparks inside him, seeing her here like this, warmed by golden light, his charming date. _Mine._ She is a lesbian; it’s not like she would mind the parts he’s got. But to be wanted _for_ them, these things he wishes he didn’t have . . . Well, struggling alcoholics don’t date people who make wine for a living. And if they do, problems are sure to arise.

Once they’re dancing, he ignores thoughts like that. _Don’t think about dating,_ he thinks. _Just enjoy this._ So, with his arms around Elizabeta and her arms around him, he does. They rotate slowly with the other pairs. He sees one boy, a head taller than his date and Arthur, lean down to whisper something in his girlfriend’s ear, or perhaps to kiss her earlobe. It is quite romantic, but Arthur’s not sure about the height difference. Sure, it would be nice to be so tall for some things, but that looks hard on the neck. Arthur imagines obtaining a small step-stool so he could kiss a taller partner with ease. He smiles, and Elizabeta smiles too, then rests her chin on his shoulder. They’re more or less the same height; neither would have to stoop.

After their dance, they peruse the food and drink options. They pour themselves two small glasses of fruit punch and enjoy vanilla cupcakes with a small dollop of cookie dough in the center. Arthur has never experienced a baked good of such brilliance. “We must tell the world,” he says.

“We must,” Elizabeta agrees. “And we must report child abuse.”

She holds up a tiny carrot. He squints at it, leans close, then nods grimly. “Just as I suspected. Baby carrots.”

“Baby carrots, Arthur!” Elizabeta’s eyes are so bright, squeezed into green crescent moons by her grin. “We’re eating babies!”

A nearby pair of girls overhears. One frowns at her plate of potato chips and the other asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Shhh.” He squeezes close to Elizabeta, glancing shiftily over his shoulder. “They’ve all been brainwashed. We must escape.”

There was a time, in middle school, when he thought she would abandon him. As children, they spent hours at a time within the fantasy worlds he created. They were knights riding dragons—why would you slay dragons when you could ride them? They were snow faeries and could control ice and snow with a flick of their fingers. They were special agents, and everyone else was after their secret knowledge. But, when puberty started, Elizabeta lost interest in these games. She wanted to buy training bras and practise putting on makeup. Arthur didn’t need the former and didn’t understand the latter. He was left alone with his thoughts for the most part, until Elizabeta realized she didn’t care about boys like the other girls did—except one boy, as it turns out, because Arthur came out to her a month after she came out to him. They are almost the entire queer population of their school, but that’s only part of the reason why they cling together. Life is hardly worth living, after all, if you can’t imagine.

“Nothing,” Elizabeta says to the girls as Arthur pulls her away. “Don’t worry about it.”

He walks as quickly as he can, but he still hears one of the girls say, _They make a good couple. Both weirdos._

Arthur doesn’t care. He no longer wastes his time with people who aren’t strange.

Once they’ve dined on cupcakes and crisps, there isn’t a whole lot for them to do. Most people lose interest in dancing after twenty minutes and just sit at the tables, talking and laughing in a black tie version of the lunchtime proceedings in the cafeteria. Arthur never joins in then, and he doesn’t join in now. Instead, he and Elizabeta walk out of the gymnasium, into the hallway. The shift from mood lighting to fluorescents has them squinting.

“Well,” Elizabeta says, “I guess we didn’t end up staying the whole time, huh?”

Arthur assumed they wouldn’t. “But I’m glad we came. That I—that I could do this.”

She smiles warmly, reaching up to knock gently on his top hat. “Me, too. I’m gonna use the washroom before we go, are you?”

He nods. They walk down to the bathrooms, but when Elizabeta steps left, for the first time Arthur steps right.

She looks up in surprise, then her expression settles into something just short of a smile. “Oh.”

Arthur fights to hide his blush. He considers saying _Wish me luck_ but that seems needlessly humorous or perhaps paints him as frightened to use the men’s room. He isn’t frightened. He’s just nervous. That’s all.

Inside, there’s the expected counter, sinks, mirror, paper towel dispenser. Then there’s a row of three urinals—or, as his brothers have told him, there are two urinals that are used and one nil urinal in the middle because to use a urinal right next to someone is against an unwritten Man Law. Arthur doesn’t understand why urinals exist at all, let alone social rules about them, but it’s irrelevant to him. This bathroom only has one stall; the bathrooms upstairs are bigger, so they probably have more. He’s never considered what would happen if he went into a men’s washroom and the stall was already taken. _Just have to queue, I suppose._ No different than when a woman’s room is full. He can’t believe he’s almost out of breath, standing in a bathroom stall. _This is no big deal. It’s just a room. Who cares what the bloody sign out front says?_ But he feels like an intruder here. Is this allowed? _Yes. Just hurry up. Liz will be waiting._

He’s barely sat down when he hears the door opening and somebody come in. He actually holds his breath, like he’s some sort of stowaway. _What is wrong with you?_ Then, with horror, he realizes he can’t go while this anonymous boy is in here with him. _Oh, for God’s sake!_ He hears a zipper being pulled down, and for some reason that one sound fills him with an inescapable shame. What is he doing here, sitting so undignified in a room that has been until now reserved for those with the astounding ability to piss standing up? He doesn’t belong here. The thought comes, unwelcome and toxic: _Just because you fought for this doesn’t mean you deserve it._

But at least when the other guy starts to pee Arthur’s bladder remembers what he came in here for. They finish at nearly the same time— _what companionship_ , he thinks wryly—and he moves as slowly as possible, wanting the boy to leave before he comes out. But he doesn’t hear the door, and he can’t stand in here forever. _Liz is waiting._ So he swallows his nerves, flushes, and steps out.

The other boy is that tall jock Arthur saw doing something romantic to his date’s ear during the slow dance. He’s fixing his hair in the mirror, smoothing it back over and over again; Arthur does his best to ignore the fact that he didn’t wash up first. Arthur doesn’t make eye contact but doesn’t avoid it, either. He will not be a timid animal. He is just as much a man as this testosterone-fueled beast. He squeezes out some soap and starts washing his hands.

“Congrats,” the jock says.

It takes him a moment to process the word, but by that time the jock is adding, “On the court thing.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. God, where did that rasp in his voice go? He sounds prepubescent compared to the bassy rumble coming out of this monster. “Thanks.”

“I got an aunt like you,” the jock continues. “I mean, he was my uncle. But she’s my aunt now. She’s great. Drives this restored Mustang . . .” Arthur drifts for a moment, but tunes back in for the end: “Anyway, my parents don’t talk to her anymore, but I do. I don’t care about any of that shit. So I’m glad you won.” He turns to face Arthur, giving a tiny respectful Dude Nod. “It was pretty cool.”

Arthur turns off the tap and reaches for the paper towel. He does a stiff mimicry of the Nod. “Cheers.”

Out goes the jock, without another word. Arthur sees himself in the mirror. Top hat a bit crooked, cheeks pink, shoulders a little hunched, elbows held close to his body. Hiding, still, in small ways. But he doesn’t need to. His chest his bound; he rolls his shoulders back. He shakes out his arms, then reaches up to straighten his top hat. He’s not there yet, where he wants to be, but he will be one day. He’s on the way, and that makes him so happy. _I deserve that much,_ he thinks with surety. _Everyone deserves that._

In the hall, Elizabeta is leaning against the wall, but she pushes off when she sees Arthur. “So you made it out in one piece.” She nudges his side as they walk out through the foyer, into night air that smells of freedom. “You have to tell me. How was it?”

_Terrifying, humiliating, fascinating, liberating._

“Oh, you know,” Arthur says. “It was pretty cool.”

 

She worried the wurst would be overdone, but it’s just right. Once her fluttering belly has eased enough to let her take the first bite.

“You must have questions,” she says lightly. Perhaps too light; does she sound coy? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Things like that never matter with her brother.

“How _do_ you make this so tasty,” Gilbert says, his grin swiftly fading when her expression darkens with disapproval. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. You know that, right?”

She nods. She always feels bad when she makes him serious, like she’s snuffing out the light in him. “Yes. I know.”

“Good.” Gilbert tips his head to one side, watching her. “What’s your name? Do you have one yet?”

She ducks her chin. Why is this so hard to say, of all things? “. . . Monika.”

“Monika?” That smile sneaks back onto his lips. “That’s a pretty name. For a pretty woman.” The smile slips; she can hardly track his jumps from silly to serious. “That is what you want? To be a woman? Surgery, hormones, all of it?”

“Yes,” she says, and it comes out a whisper so thick with yearning it pricks tears into her eyes.

Gilbert nods, clearing sorrow from his throat—not for her response, but for the way she said it, so agonized by this thing that’s been kept secret from him for so long. “If it makes you happy, then it makes me happy.” He reaches across the table to take her hand. “And please, don’t keep any of it secret from me. Tell me anything you want. I don’t care if it’s embarrassing. If you need somebody to go to, it can always be me. Okay?”

She squeezes his hand and bows her head, too grateful to speak. “I . . . I was worried—”

“That I wouldn’t love you anymore?” Gilbert guesses. “Did you stop loving me when I got engaged to Roddy?”

Her eyes flick up to him. “No, but—”

“It’s no different,” he says gently. “Although you would probably have been doing me a favor if you did stop loving me. Never move in with a musician. I’ll never know quiet again.”

“You’ve never met quiet,” Monika says, sniffling. “You wouldn’t know quiet if you fell on it.”

The grin lights up her brother’s pale face; that devil-may-care blaze in his eyes will give her so much bravery as time goes on. Just picturing that look, she’ll be able to sit down with her boss, with her doctor, with therapists and surgeons. It will be frightening, but she will not be daunted.

“There’s the sister I know and love,” he says, and raises his glass. “To Monika!”

She’s crying as their glasses clink together, but she’s laughing too. She never thought things would turn out like this, not in a million years. She never thought she’d be lucky enough to have a happy ending.

 

Abel lets the obnoxious laughter continue for only a few more seconds before he asks, “What’s so funny about that?”

His dark, flat tone reminds them that he is taller than them, that he has never been as lighthearted, that they know less about him than anyone else on the team. Does he know how to seriously hurt someone? Not exactly. But they don’t know that.

His teammates fall silent, exchanging a confused glance. “Well, like, it’s plants,” one says.

“Yeah,” says the other. “Like bio.”

Abel shakes his head. These two pass by that GSA bulletin board at least once a day; he shouldn’t have to educate them, but if he doesn’t, they’ll remain ignorant. And ignorance leads to violence very quickly, one way or another. “Asexuality is not asexual reproduction. I don’t feel sexual attraction to anyone. That’s all.”

They’re both staring at him. Not exactly blank-faced, but close.

“I’m not gay and I’m not straight,” he says. “I’m neither. I might date someone someday, but it would be for love. Not for sex.”

He’s aware these words sound profound coming from the mouth of a teenage boy, but it’s how he feels, and he’s not going to be ashamed of it. He spent long enough trying to run from it, telling himself, _Next year it’ll kick in. You’ll want it next year, when you’re older._ He even tried forcing himself to enjoy watching porn once. As soon as the wall of video previews started looping—graphic close-ups of genitalia, faces contorted with what looked more like pain than pleasure, all of it so brutal and, well, erotic—he lost any pressure he’d built up beforehand. He does slip a hand under the blanket some nights, but he’s not really interested in orgasm; he’d rather let his hand wander over his body, imagining himself snuggled close with someone he loves, both of them exploring each other’s physical landscape, not to be sexy or kinky, just to show fondness, to show appreciation. That’s what he wants. Whether he’ll find someone else interested in that, only time and Fate will tell.

“Oh,” one of the guys says.

“Huh,” says the other. “Didn’t know that was even a thing.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

Abel shrugs. “We hide in plain sight.”

He leaves them with that, striding out of the locker room to start the walk home. He’s alone, but that’s not always such a bad thing. He can think of a lot worse company to have.

 

_(0) - Inbox_

 

“Sir?”

Francis blinks, sitting up straight in his chair. “Yes?”

The waitress offers him a macadamia nut cookie. His favorite, but she couldn’t possibly know that; he doesn’t order them often, worried for his waistline. “Fresh out of the oven,” she says, with a private smile. “On the house.”

He accepts the warm, sweet-smelling gift, but says, “Thank you, but why?”

She shrugs. “You just looked like you needed something to cheer you up.”

He feels an uncharacteristic swirl of guilt—feeling guilty for being sad in public, he’s been in America for too long—and nods with a grateful smile. In the corner of his eye, he sees her watching him take the first bite. They are very good cookies, so he doesn’t have to fake much of his delight. Still, it’s only a brief distraction from—

 

_(1) - Inbox_

 

His heart leaps into his mouth. He can’t bear to wait. He clicks.

 

_Dear Francis Bonnefoy,_

_I appreciate the honesty with which you have expressed your concerns, and I respect the courage it must have taken for you to be so forthcoming in the current state of our society. However, I assure you our company does not condone any homophobic or transphobic rhetoric. A change in uniform will be no issue at all. I have contacted your supervisor to inform her of this change, and if you could send me the appropriate sizing information, I will have a new uniform sent to you right away._

_Have a nice day._

 

It is with no foul intent for the macadamia cookie that Francis finds these words to be the sweetest things he’s ever seen.

 

Em’s father is still staring at them with that look. They don’t like that look. It’s the confusion of a trapped animal, the kind of confusion that leads to frustration, to rage. He doesn’t know what non-binary means, and that’s no surprise to Em; they didn’t know, either, until they started researching gender identity. Who knew what society labels as pink and blue is actually an entire infinite rainbow of identity? And, once you learn that, how could anyone prefer the restriction of the binary? _Because it’s what people have always known,_ they think. _Because they feel safe in it._ But all it will take is education. If the gender spectrum is all people know, it will be respected and defended just the same way the binary is. And changing the world starts with one person. So Em takes a deep breath.

“Non-binary means—”

“Stop.”

Em stops.

Their father is holding up a hand, palm and fingers flat. _Halt._ His brow is heavy on his eyes. “I don’t want to hear about this. You’re my daughter. That’s what you are.”

Each sentence is a sword through the heart. Em struggles to find their voice, over the blades. “No, it’s not. You can’t know. I’m the only one who can know. I’m non-binary, and that means I’m—”

“I said I don’t want to hear it!” Not quite a shout.

Normally, Em would shrink back. But not today. Not after all the worry they’ve gone through, after the consolations from friends and teachers: _He’s your father. He loves you. Just talk to him, he’ll understand._ “I’m not a boy or a girl. My gender is somewhere in between. I use they/them pronouns, and I go by Em.”

They’ve never seen such anger in those icy eyes—never directed at them, especially. “Your name is Emily. You are a girl. What would your mother think if she saw you doing this?”

The name is the jab to the gut. The misgendering is the cross to the jaw. And the final question is an uppercut that has Em flying to their feet and shouting, yes, shouting through the tears.

“She would think that you’re supposed to love me and respect me, and you’re doing a shitty job at both of those things! She would listen to me, and she would care enough about the things I’m saying and feeling to educate herself about it! If I told you I was doing drugs, you would look _that_ up right away, wouldn’t you? But you won’t even let me explain this thing that isn’t bad or unhealthy, and that actually makes me feel _happy._ Everyone but you calls me they/them. Do you know what it’s like to hate coming home because the person who’s supposed to care the most about you makes you feel like less than a human being?”

Their father is just staring at them now. There’s no anger on his face. There’s just shock, and something behind it that they can’t read. But they can’t bear to stand here. They’re shaking too much. They whirl around, ready to run upstairs even though they know crying alone in their room will kill them inside—they’re stopped. They turn.

Their father has grasped their sleeve. The shock has worn off from his face, leaving just the darker, quieter expression. Em isn’t sure, but they think it’s grief, regret, sorrow. In a low, uneven voice, their father says, “Listen to me. I don’t know how to talk about these things. But just listen.” A deep breath. “I don’t know what any of this LGBT stuff means. The only things I know are the things you’ve told me. I . . . I’ll look into what you’re talking about. I don’t know if it’s just a phase—”

That one’s more of a dull ache, because Em has wondered that themself. Softly, they reply, “Even if it is, I should be able to find that out.”

Their father hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. See, there’s no manual for this. My parents never talked about straight sex, let alone this whole other world. But if it makes you feel like—like less than a human being . . .” He drops his gaze briefly, and Em hopes he’s realizing how much pain can be packed in little, thoughtless things. “I lost your mother. I’m not going to lose you, too.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” Em says. “Please don’t drive me away.”

A stricken look crosses their father’s face, and he pulls Em into the first hug they’ve shared since—well, probably since puberty, when their changing body became against the rules to touch. Em didn’t realize how much they missed this; they’d forgotten how safe it feels to press their cheek against their father’s shoulder.

“I’ll try,” he whispers. “I’ll screw it up a lot, but I’ll try. I promise, Em.”

 _Finally._ Finally, Em smiles, even with tears still wetting their cheeks. “Thanks, Dad.”

Not a perfect outcome, but they’ll take it.

 

_The End._


End file.
